The Dutiful Son
by dharmaharker
Summary: Norman's conscience fights to stay alive inside of the mind that once was his. Five years after institutionalization, a young nurse's presence aids his recovery, but jealous Mother will not yield. As the system at the mental hospital spins wildly out of control, Norman clings to the hope that things will be better. Are there better lives for men like him? Norman/OC.
1. Suffocation of Conscience

_I can't get up._

_Mother, why can't I get up?_

_Mother, stop it!_

It's sad, when a mother has to speak the words that condemn her own son.

_Oh God, stop it! Shut up! Shut up!_

But I couldn't allow them to believe that I would commit murder.

_Stop it! Stop it right now!_

They'll put him away now, as I should have years ago. He was always bad, and in the end he intended to tell them I killed those girls and that man...

_Oh God, I'm paralyzed!_

…as if I could do anything but just sit and stare, like one of his stuffed birds.

_I can't feel my legs!_

They know I can't move a finger, and I won't.

_Mother, you're hurting me! Mother, stop! Mother, please!_

I'll just sit here and be quiet, just in case they do... suspect me.

_Mother!_

They're probably watching me.

_I'm blind. Why can't I-_

Well, let them. Let them see what kind of a person I am.

_Damn it, Mother, I can't breathe!_

I'm not even going to swat that fly.

_Oh God, Mother, why can't I breathe?_

I hope they are watching... they'll see.

_Stop it! Stop it! Mother!_

They'll see and they'll know, and they'll say, "Why, she wouldn't even harm a fly..."


	2. Human Kindness

FEBURARY 19, 1965.

Doctor Richman sat at his desk, reading the Bates profile again. Name: Norman James Bates. Age: 30. Hair: Brown; Eyes: Brown. Height: 6' 2". _The facts are all the same_, he thought, _since the day I told Crane and Loomis._ He was waiting for a call when the phone rang.

His patient, he was told, after five years of experimental treatment, had spoken in his own voice.

In barely contained excitement, he headed toward the young man's room in measured paces, stepping on only the blue tiles that checked the floor alongside white. Hands shaking, he swung the door open and stepped inside. Norman sat facing the wall.

"Hello, ah," Richman hesitated. "…Mr. Bates? It is… _Mr._ Bates?"

Norman turned, smiling. His voice was soft and hoarse with disuse.

"Hello, doctor. That is, it's nice to meet you."

Richman laughed breathlessly.

"The pleasure's all mine." His voice softened. "Norman. Can I call you Norman?"

A cautious smile. "…Sure."

"Listen, Norman. This is important." Richman began to speak in halting tones. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Sure. Headaches, but you know. Nothing else."

The doctor's brow furrowed. "Headaches?"

"Yes."

"Any… voices?"

Norman paled. "Same as always."

"And… your mother."

The patient's facial expressions, Richman noted, became defensive. "What about her?"

"Have you seen her lately?"

"Of course not… what do you know?"

"You can tell me, Norman. It's okay."

"W-w-what… what is there… to tell?"

"You were young, Norman. You were sixteen. You're safe now, and the sooner you come to terms, the sooner we can send you home. So what's it going to be?"

He growled through his teeth. "_What are you suggesting?_"

"We know you killed your mother."

"You leave my mother out of this!"

"Listen now, let's be reasonable. You haven't been yourself and I want to have a reasonable discussion with you."

"A reasonable discussion! You know damn well it's too soon! You're a psychologist. They say I've lost five years. Gone for five years! Do you have any idea where I've been?"

"I can imagine that it was a trying experience, and I hope that we can work through it together."

"You think you understand me, don't you? You think you know what goes on in my head. You have no idea."

Richman turned to the exit, opening the door as slightly as possible. "Margaret! Will you call Smith for me, please?"

A gentle voice, while muffled, rang as clear as a bell through the door. "Let me speak to him! Let me just speak to him."

"I won't have it, Margaret! It's too early on!"

A stubborn white shoe wedged itself in the door. Enter Margaret, a pale young beauty with dark hair. Norman was instantly tamed by her presence. He blushed and shifted his eyes like a schoolboy.

"Miss Serling."

"Good afternoon! You seem better today."

"It's been a while, but I'm back. Most of the time. Well, some of the time." He grinned briefly, but his smile faded. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough to know that you're upset. I'm so sorry, Mr. Bates." Her soft voice and sincerity seemed to comfort him.

"Ah… Norman. Y-you can call me Norman."

"Well then, Norman, I'm around if you need somebody to talk to."

Another charming grin. "Oh, I will."

She smiled. "Good!"

"I wouldn't get so excited if I were you, I'm a terrible conversationalist, and to be honest, I'm not sure if I can ever open up to you about what happened."

"We can talk about anything you like."

"No, wait. Don't get me wrong! It's not that I don't trust you. I-I trust you. I just… it's too awful for you to hear."

"You can tell me as much or as little as you like."

"Then we don't need to talk about my mother."


	3. Mother

APRIL 23.

"What do you mean, 'suicidal'? His behavior hasn't been hostile, we went over this the last time we met." Margaret leaned against the cold plaster wall, her hands behind her back.

Richman leaned back from his desk. "I don't want you spending all of your time with him. His mother personality is jealous, there were three young girls killed because of it."

"But we haven't seen that personality in weeks!"

"I'm losing my patience with you." He lowered his voice. "You listen to me. Just listen," he said, his face nearing hers. "I have reason to believe," Richman whispered, pausing and looking out his glass door to make sure no one was listening, "that he's beginning to develop dangerous emotions."

"Like what?"

"Like… fear! Fear, for example. Last week, some folks tried to sweep up the floor in his room, and you have to understand- he's like a damned lion in a cage. This was no problem when the room used to collect dust, half the time he was catatonic and the other half, all the custodians had to put up with was verbal abuse from the mother. This time was different, though. He saw the broom, and he walked to the corner and he spoke of mopping up blood. He cleaned up after her crimes; I imagine there are a score of things we don't know. After he backed up a little more the janitor could start, but he kept on talking, and he said his mother used to beat him with a broom when he misbehaved as a child. It's going to be tough the next time we do that, all it takes is one bad day and he takes that broom and beats the janitor!"

"That's not true, you know it isn't! Norman isn't the violent one; I'd be more concerned about him potentially harming himself."

"Not just fear," Richman said with confidence.

"What else?"

"I can't tell you, Margaret. You're too directly involved."

"Then you should tell me," Margaret said. "If this has anything to do with me, I have the right to know."

"You're not going to like this, but as you insist." The doctor sighed. "I have reason to believe… that he's beginning to... develop… romantic… feelings. For you."

She looked away. "Do you have any evidence to support this?"

"I have a funny feeling about the way he's been acting lately is all, I'm just concerned."

Her sapphire eyes turned cold. "I trust that your diagnoses aren't based on such conclusions."

"…I'll keep an eye out for you, then," Richman mumbled, shocked by her sudden change of manner. Sensing the awkwardness of the situation, he prepared to leave. "I'll be off now, if you don't mind. I'd like to have a word with him."

Richman opened the door for Margaret, and went whistling down the hallway. He paused at the door to Norman's room, or cell, if you like, or chamber, and entered.

Norman was slouched against the wall, his eyes half-closed and mouth half-open in a hopeless, feverish expression.

"Norman!" Richman ran to his side, where he knelt. "Norman, are you feeling alright?"

The patient murmured some unintelligible words, after which his eyes rolled back into his head. He slumped to the floor. Richman reached out to take the patient's pulse. Norman's eyes opened suddenly, flashing a warning. He pulled away violently. A hideous, gravelly voice tore through his response like a death shudder.

"_Don't touch me, you feeble-minded shrink! Lock my boy in the nuthouse, chain him up like some loon, that I approve, but don't you dare touch me!"_

Richman drew back. "Margaret!"

"_That's right, a man like you always runs back to some woman. You're a coward, just like my Norman. Do you think he's here by his own accord? Do you think there's any reason he hasn't up and killed himself other than seeing that filthy tramp of yours every day? I know what you are, I've got you scared now, haven't I! And I could tell her how you felt, because I can see what she can't, young and blind and brainless as she is! I can see things you can't, things my Norman can't! That insolent boy thinks he can defy me, but he knows! He knows that he can't live without his mother!"_

Not sure what to say, Richman backed toward the door. The door swung open. Margaret stood on the other side, looking rather innocent.

Norman's jaw quaked. It was as if his mother was trying to speak. He was holding her back with the little power he had. Suddenly, he gasped, himself again. Panting, he sank down further. He looked up at Margaret and Richman, who stood over him, puzzling.

"Terribly sorry," he sighed, his voice cracking slightly, "I'm, ah… I'm feeling a little better now."


	4. Smoke Screen

APRIL 24, MIDMORNING.

"I want him the hell out of here. I want him in a high-security asylum in Phoenix."

Margaret's hand was cool on the back of her neck. She let it slip down and clutch the golden cross she wore around her neck. "That's not fair to him. He's never done anything to hurt anybody here. You said yourself five years ago he couldn't do anything in a place like this!"

Richman leaned back in his chair, his long legs extended and stretching under the low desk. He reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette- which he put into his mouth- followed by a lighter, which he used to light the cigarette.

"I thought you didn't smoke," Margaret said, watching Richman inhale.

Richman took the cigarette out of his mouth and sighed, smoke rising. "I do now."


	5. Divided Mind

APRIL 24, NIGHT.

A quiet, hollow knock on his door roused Norman Bates from deep, uneasy thought. He had not slept. "Norman! Please, I want to speak with you!"

"Shh," Norman warned, his weary voice strained, and whispered: "You'll wake someone up! Do you have a key?"

There was a brief moment of silence as a key slipped into the lock. Both parties listened intently. There was a click, and a metal scraping noise. The doorknob turned as Norman stepped back. He had known all along whom his visitor was.

Margaret stepped into the moonlight which poured through the shuttered window. Her eyes were red-rimmed with dark circles, indicating a burden she wished she could drop from her shoulders. Her face was flushed, she had indeed been crying. Norman didn't know why, and she now pushed a single dark curl from her eyes. "I need to talk to you, Norman."

"It's awfully late," Norman said, his eyes shifting to the floor. "I… why did you, ah… you wanted to…" Norman cleared his throat. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes- if you remember, I said you could always talk to me, but right now I need to talk to you."

"It's important, isn't it," Norman said. The gaunt way he looked startled Margaret. His face was as white as she'd ever seen it, and he now swayed slightly. His balance was off. She noticed one of his hands was held behind his back by the other arm, and had been all the while. His eyes were wide and empty.

"Norman, are you alright?"

Norman exhaled and fell backwards, collapsing onto the bench which was attached to the far wall, which Norman leaned into, closing his eyes.

"Norman!" Margaret was at his side, and she kneeled by him, looking up into his face. He put his hand to his head, letting it slip down his face to reveal bloody fingerprints. "What happened?"

"I'm sorry," Norman mumbled. The previously hidden arm was soaked in blood, the other hand clutching it fiercely. The patient's breathing was labored and strenuous, through his teeth.

Margaret tried to roll up Norman's sleeve gently as he winced, revealing deep grooves in his arm, bleeding profusely, afflicted there by the fingernails of his own left arm. "What happened?" Margaret looked deeply into his eyes. "Tell me."

"She's…" Norman trailed off, and seemed fainting a moment, closing his eyes and clutching the bench as if to try and steady his spinning head. He made a weak sound as if to clear his throat, but it didn't improve the quality of his voice. "She's trying to kill me."

"Norman, don't move. I'll get you help!" She rose and stepped into the light, her back to him. Her foot struck a pool of blood spreading on the floor. It had gone unnoticed.

"Don't go," Norman pleaded, leaning forward. "What's wrong? Why did you come to speak with me?"

"I can't..." Margaret said, turning away.

"Something's happened," Norman said, raising his voice. "You're shaking!"

Her voice wavered. "A guard was killed. Richman thinks it was you. He has no proof, but he'll have his way. You're to be tried."

"What if it was? What if it was me?" His eye flashed, his voice empty and harsh. Margaret had never seen him angry before. "I feel like Dr. Jekyll! Do you know that? Except he was able to kill himself! What a lucky guy!"

Margaret drew a shaky breath.

"I knew what was happening. After Mother killed the first girl, I knew what was happening. I always knew. In the back of my mind, I watched. I had always been my worst enemy."

"Please don't tell me this!" A tear rolled down Margaret's cheek.

"I tried to stop it. After I knew what I had done, I tried to put a bullet in my head. She wouldn't let me!"

"Please stop."

"So she killed the second girl. And then I knew. I had to cooperate. I had to do everything she said. Except now she doesn't need me anymore. Every second she's fighting me. You've seen it, I was so far gone. For five years I thought I'd never live again."

A sob escaped Margaret's lips. She wiped the tears from her face. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're the only one who's ever made me want to fight her."

"I don't understand." Margaret's hand rested on the cool surface of the unlocked door. Her blood pounded in her ears. The choice was hers to stay or to go. "Why me?"

"If I knew, I couldn't say- she would never let me. Please don't go!" He pleaded desperately. "I need someone who understands- someone who won't turn away. I can't fight her without someone's help. I never knew- please look at me!"

The door shuddered when, eyes closed and tears streaming, Margaret Serling locked it behind herself, and when the medics came they had to use their own key. Progress had been made and undone: Norman Bates was once again a divided mind.


	6. Two

APRIL 25.

Within the white walls of the medical ward, a young nurse sat by a bed in a quiet vigil, silently meditating on her past mistakes. Grudges. Regrets. Sins.

Feelings she wished she could forget. Her stomach sick with memories.

The first time she saw his face. High cheekbones, the soft brown eyes of an angel. Grinning like a demon. A child, a man, a monster.

And the day he stopped smiling. When he blinked his eyes. When he looked at her consciously, a man whose face had been shaved by attendants. He smiled at her, gentle and dear, a boy-next-door.

One conversation they had, a conversation she kept locked in the secret of her heart, now flooded the surface of her brain. It was early morning, before the sun rose. They met during odd hours, like star-crossed lovers evading the wrath of their ties, their mothers and doctors.

Tension mounting between them, they spoke, breathless, chests heaving, eyes like trusting does. He had found something to hold onto.

"Tell me something," she had said.

The aging youth was ever amused. "What would you like me to tell? I don't have any secrets. You know t-the worst of me already."

"Then give me a memory."

"You first."

She crossed her legs. "When I first heard of you, I was sitting at my kitchen table, and I thought to myself, 'What a terrible man!' I was wrong."

He frowned, with a smirk at the corners of his mouth.

"And you would think," she continued, "that you would be violent and cruel, but... you're not."

He hesitated, feeling sick, no words to say. "Thank you."

"And now you."

He tilted his head, his voice grim. "Are you trying to provoke her?"

"No! Never. Just tell me something... something no one else knows. Something everyone has forgotten. Remember your childhood. Remember Norman."

"If you're willing to listen... it's something awful."

She braced herself. "About your childhood?"

And he wove a story.

He had been thirteen years old.

He had walked in his backyard, his private domain.

His foot fell onto a bird's nest on the ground, crushing an egg.

He ran to the house and was sick on the doorstep.

Presently, he was waking. Rays of early morning sun filtered through the blinds to fall on Margaret's hair. His bandaged wrist reached up, his hand touched her lips.

"You remind me of the Virgin Mary," he whispered.

She closed her eyes.


	7. Shadow of a Doubt

MAY 1

"It's because I killed him, isn't it?" He slumped over in his chair, his hands clasped at the back of his neck, wrists bandaged.

"I don't think you're as deeply at fault as you seem to believe."

Norman's eyes, half-downcast, watched her cross her legs in the chair across from him. She watched as she partially pulled her shoe off with her other foot, watched her slide it back on.

"Norman?"

"Yes?"

"It's not your fault you've been moved to the high security ward."

There was a resounding silence. The faint humming of the florescent light above their heads was deafening.

Norman raised his eyes. "I guess." He cleared his throat. "But it doesn't matter. Who knows, besides us?"

"Norman-"

"No one. Right?" He seemed deep in thought, there was something of himself behind his eyes. "That's okay. I guess it was my fault to some degree. I mean… if I did it, but _I_ didn't do it… that is, it was still me."

"Norman…!" Margaret bit her lip.

"What?" He hid his face in his hands.

Head bowed like an angel, she stood and crossed the room. She smiled sadly as leaned down in front of him and placed her hand on his, gently moving his hands to meet his gaze. "It wasn't your fault. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise."

Norman realized her hand was in his, and for a moment held it there, as if he could transfer his bad memories away, as if years of pain could be relieved by touching her.

With a look of earnest apology, Margaret pulled her hand away.

"I… I've been thinking. I need to speak with Richman," Norman mumbled, blushing fiercely.

"I'll bring you to him."

Margaret unlocked the door as Norman rose from his chair. "Will you stay in the doorway?"

"Sure."

She gently closed the door and walked down the corridor. Norman leaned against the cold metal and looked through the wire-crossed window. It was only wide and tall enough as a visor for his eyes. His line of vision was limited.

He wasn't sure what had come over him, but he was terrified. Shaking. It was as if he was living his childhood again, alone in the dark with no one to comfort him, no one to teach him comfort. Something about the door across the hall drew him in.

A gravelly voice called from across the hall. "Norman Bates!"

Norman flinched, his eyes growing wide with terror, and whispered. "No."

An unseen hand pounded on the door that trapped it twice. The metal clang echoed in Norman's ears. "Bates. That's your name, isn't it?" It was a young man, no older than Norman himself.

Norman stammered. "I—I, ah…"

The voice laughed, and a pair of cold eyes sparkled cruelly at him through the window. "Cat got your tongue? Jesus Christ! You dumb or something?" There was a sharp edge on his words. "I thought we got over that."

Norman could feel the man smiling behind the metal door. It made him sick.

"You're a schitzo, aren't you?"

Cold sweat began to bead on his brow. Norman felt something familiar begin to tug at his core. Heat. The color red. Tenseness at the back of his neck, in his shoulders. Anger. He brought his arm above the window and leaned his face on it, breathing deeply. Breathing in the pressure in his head. He was weakening.

"That's alright," the man sneered. "Don't answer me."

Norman groaned softly, furrowing his brow.

"Did I hurt your feelings? I'm not picking on you, you know. I look up to you." The man leaned forward. "Five years ago, they put you in here. You were twenty-five then. I was twenty-two. I saw you on TV." He cocked his head. "I saw you. You were cracked. Catatonic. Completely unresponsive. And I thought that if some poor bastard could do it and completely lose his cool, I would be able to walk away unscathed." He laughed bitterly. "Perfect murder. Of course, by now I realize there's no such thing. But you're the lunatic that landed me in here with blood on my hands. What about you, Bates?" His voice lowered to a whisper. "Do you have blood on yours?" With a grin, he snickered cruelly.

Norman turned away, pressing his fist into his clenched teeth as he rested against the wall, eyes shut tightly. As a child, he thought that closing his eyes would make the voices go away. It wasn't helping.

_Norman, _hissed his mother in the darkened caverns of his tortured brain. _Norman. Norman._

"Stop. Stop." He reeled to the back wall, head spinning.

_They know about you. Everyone knows about you. This game is over, boy, do you hear me?_ _It wasn't me. It was never me. I never did a thing. You killed them. You killed them all._

He leaned on the bench. "It wasn't my fault."

_I can control you. I can kill you the way you killed me. I can kill her the way you killed those girls. Are you listening, boy? You will never get rid of me._

Norman's eyes were stone-cold. "You won't touch her." There was silence. For a moment, triumph. Then a whisper.

_We'll see._

The door opened quietly. Margaret stepped into the room. "Norman… I can take you to see him now." He looked up at her, dizzy and terrified. "Are you feeling alright?"

He rose to his feet. "Yes... yes, I'll follow you."


	8. Perdition

Norman sat in a chair before the long, low desk, watching as Richman lit a cigarette. Smoke curled thin and high into the still air. He coughed quietly.

"You wanted to see me." Richman stood, pushed out his chair and looked down at his patient. Norman had the impression that Richman, like a frightened animal in its own defense, was trying to make himself appear larger and less vulnerable.

"I want to talk," Norman said, shifting in his seat.

Richman exhaled slowly, cigarette smoke swirling in hazy lines above his head. "What about?"

Norman, who had been staring at the floor, glanced up nervously. "I think…" His eyes flickered over Richman's face and darted away. He decided to look at the floor, lowering his voice. "I know what you think I did." After swallowing nervously, he raised his head and looked at the doctor, who had gone to look out the window, and continued with a strength that seemed to come from nowhere. "I'm asking you to give me a chance. No one ever told me where the guard was found or how he died. This isn't how I—_she _works. You know that."

"And you know better than I can ever theorize how unpredictable she is, and when she kills, who she targets." Richman's eyes glowed, his back to his adversary. "Jealousy. You're lucky it was a guard and not a nurse. It's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt, and when someone does, you know who that will be."

Shocked to the core, Norman's blood froze, directing every ounce of his concentration to Richman's words.

"You're a dangerous man. Dangerous to yourself and others. You belong someplace where you can't hurt anyone."

Norman shuddered- _someplace_.

"Was that all you wanted to say?" Richman turned, his expression as cold as his words.

Norman nodded slowly.

"When you make your choice, I have a confession for you to sign. We'll work things out from there and send you somewhere safe. Promise you'll think about it? Or have you decided?" He bent his eyes on the patient.

"I… I need time. T-to think it over."

Norman closed his eyes in silent defeat. Richman was right. He couldn't stay.


	9. Someplace

MAY 2.

"Doctor Richman wants to send me… someplace."**  
><strong>  
>"I know what he wants you to do," said Margaret, shifting her eyes to study the peeling paint on the wall. "And I know what would happen if you left. We both do, you and I. You would never improve. You wouldn't have the chance."<p>

"But what would happen if I stayed?" The strain in Norman's voice warned Margaret not to try his temper.

"He said something, didn't he? Doctor Richman. That's just like him."

"But he's right!" Pleadingly, he grabbed her wrist. She drew back, and he pulled away, realizing he had crossed the line. "Sorry." He paused briefly and exhaled through his teeth. "I don't want to put anyone in danger."

She threw a quick look over her shoulder. "No one is in danger. Let me help you."

"Don't you see what I'm trying to say? Hasn't it been obvious all this time?" Norman groaned hot-temperedly, eyes burning. "It's you, I'm trying not to hurt you!" His voice ached with regret. "I've seen what I've done! I've seen it in ways no one else ever can!"

Margaret reached gently for Norman's shoulder.

He turned himself away from her touch. "You don't know me," he growled. "You don't know anything about me. I let you try to understand me, but I can't! I can't, because I can't hurt anyone again." He looked truly shaken. His face had drained of its color; his eyes were glassy and dull. "If I leave, she can't touch you. And maybe if I leave, maybe if I'm far enough from all of this, she'll be weaker. Maybe she'll get stronger. Oh, God, I don't know. Maybe she'll have the strength to kill me."

Margaret's words were strong and quiet. "I know how hard it is for you, but I need you to trust me. I need you to trust that you're stronger than you know."

Norman was silent. How could he trust when every moment of his young life was wasted on someone who had twisted every sense of the word? How, when his past was so perverse, could he ever trust again?

"Just give me one day to prove your innocence," she pleaded.

"What if you can't? What if you're wrong?"

Margaret's thoughts were drawn back to her childhood, to every accurate hunch, to every clever moment of female intuition. "I'm not wrong."

"You know who did it, then?"

"I know how to find out."

"And Doctor Richman?"

So he knew. The good doctor resented his famous patient, for reasons that seemed clear to Margaret and not to Norman. Envy in its strangest form: what did the madman have that any respected man could want? "He can't hide the truth."

"Alright."

"Alright."

"…I'll see you tomorrow," Norman said with a look of guilty hope.

"We've done so much talking," Margaret said as she paused by the door. "We've just talked and talked for weeks and weeks."

"Maybe it's time for me to stop talking and start taking action."

Margaret shrugged with a soft smile. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Norman laughed with bittersweet feelings of vague fear and dizzy confidence. "I don't know."


	10. The Bargain

**Please review!**

* * *

><p>MAY 2, EVENING.<p>

Margaret paused outside of Richman's office, her hand resting lightly on the doorknob. "Time to take action," she whispered to no one in particular.

He stood when she entered the room.

"I wasn't expecting you."

"I thought I'd pay a visit."

He paused. "This isn't like you. What do you want?"

"Why do you assume I want something?" Her father, a lawyer, once taught her to answer questions with questions and answers with more answers, or perhaps it was to question answers or to answer questions with both an answer and more questions. She couldn't remember now. It seemed so long ago, but she needed to channel every power she had. She knew that if sparring with Richman didn't work, there were other ways a woman could be persuasive even if she didn't wish to be. A life was hanging in the balance—a human life, no matter how guilty or innocent or strong or weak—something she felt a strange an inexplicable connection to. She would do what needed to be done.

"You never come by unannounced, or just because you want to. What's this all about?"

Her face flushed. She wasn't prepared to go against Richman, who she knew was a man who always had his way. She also knew he would hardly ever consider a slight young woman a formidable adversary. There was a chance he wouldn't even listen. "I don't mean to question your judgment, but I feel there's been a mistake."

Richman raised an eyebrow cruelly. "On my part?"

"It doesn't matter whose mistake it was, I intend to propose a solution."

"This doesn't have to do with that pet case of yours, does it?" He watched as she turned her eyes away. "You're kidding! Bates?"

She nodded.

"Why won't you let it go? We're a small facility. We can't keep him here. If we send him away, all our troubles are over."

"On what grounds? At what cost? So we send him away, and maybe our troubles are over. Maybe you'll sleep easier at night. But what happens when he leaves? Do we destroy everything we've ever done for him here? Here, there is a very real possibility that he will be reformed to some end. But anywhere else? That's when there are lives in danger. The stress of moving will prove too much for him."

"We won't know until we try."

"Are you really so confident, Doctor? You would lay something so valuable on the line?"

"The word 'value' is subjective. You're referring to the moral weight of this man's life. A man who killed six people in cold blood. I can't ruin his life. He already has."

Margaret's eyes shone with tears of hate. "Not in cold blood, in the shadow of mental illness. What kind of doctor are you?"

"I'm a man like any man. I need to account for my own well-being."

"I know he didn't kill the guard."

A split second of silence. A split second of anger flickered in Richman's face at the corners of the mouth. As suddenly as he lost his composure, he regained it again. He smirked. "Again, subjective. How can you know or assume anything without sound evidence?"

"True, I don't have the evidence. But you do." She studied him, but no emotion was allowed through. His face was a blank slate. "The security tapes from the east wing."

He thought a moment. "Why should I help you? Perhaps I'll be willing to bend—that is, you know what I want from you. You know what I've asked of you."

"Then you remember when I first came here. Three years ago."

The cold mask of Richman's face was still and stoic. "I asked you to marry me."

"And I'm willing to consider your offer."

Richman laughed cruelly. "You really love him."

She tried to hide it, but the color flooding to her face betrayed her. She turned away with a slant of her brow and tightness of lip.

Walking to the back of the desk, Richman reached into the desk drawer and withdrew the volume that would lead to Norman's acquittal. He crossed again to stand just beyond her reach, offering it to her in his hand held close to his chest. She stepped closer. As Richman thrust the tape into her hands, he grabbed her face and kissed her roughly on the lips. He felt her flinch in his grasp.

He grinned as she walked from the room, clutching the small black videocassette in her hands.

When she was outside in the hall and he could no longer see her, a tear slipped from her eye and stained her cheek.


	11. Power Play

**This week, we've reached about the halfway point. In your reviews— and please review— I'd love to see your predictions (they will not affect the ending I have already planned). I'm going to start updating more often, but please, review! I love reviews.**

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><p>MORNING, MAY 3.<p>

"Norman, we've given over another patient to the authorities for the charges previously pressed against you." Margaret seemed triumphant, Norman noticed, but different. She seemed to be full of water instead of blood—a paler version of her rosy self.

"I… I don't understand."

"You're innocent. Of your latest charges."

"You were the only one who believed me. Thank you." A pause. "Who was it?"

She became even paler now, like a lily. "Another patient. The police came to get him earlier today. I'm not here to talk, I'm sorry. I've come here to bring you to Doctor Richman's new office."

"He moved? Why?"

"He's been promoted. Now that he has authority in this building, Doctor Richman has decided that he would like you to continue these talks we've been having with him."

The noise in the room, the white noise from through the walls, began to dim. The sound of Margaret's voice as she continued to speak became faint. "He's had a new office prepared. A safe one. You know."

"Yes, I…" Norman felt a crushing weight on his shoulders. His jaw tightened. A flash of pain at the corners of his eyes as his eyes flared. Then this was from the past? Or some premonition? _Norman, you're cracked. _Someone was telling him, _safe? What is safe? Anyone can go mad, everyone does, if only for a moment in their lives. Nothing is safe when you remember, nothing is safe from you. All it takes is a moment to snap. It doesn't take long at all. _It wasn't her voice, it was more familiar. His own. Something else of his own, too, his own alien laughter, uncanny and strange. Stress, something tearing… something tearing into his back. Ripping his flesh, searing his skull. Burning. the voice that pulled him back like a cloth dipped in cool water for a child's feverish face.

"Norman?"

"You- I s-suppose you're right."

You'll come with me, then? Yes, I'll come with you. She led him down the corridor, past the young man opposite his door howling with laughter, down a hall with no windows and little light until they reached a small oak door with a wire-crossed window.

"Go on in," Margaret said as she opened the door, the glance between the two like a thinly woven thread, and Norman knew that once it was broken there would be nothing anchoring him to the earth. She closed the door and his stomach dropped. Now he was alone, away from himself and the doctor.

"Sit down, please."

He sat, ill, unwilling to realize what this meant. He felt himself drifting. "Doctor, I— something's wrong; you see, something in my head…"

"That's why I've called you in to see me. I understand your mind isn't working the way it should be."

Norman laughed hotly. "Well, that's why I'm here anyhow."

Richman pressed his thin lips together into a line. The corner of his mouth twitched. "We haven't spoken in a while, and all of this lack of conversation has been reflecting poorly on your progress."

At the edge of his seat, bright-eyed, the madman (or so he was called) seemed more a fox than a mouse. The tenderness in his quiet voice was gone, and it seemed he had taken up arms and gone offensive against his regular inclination toward defense. "I'm doing fine."

"We need to have a straight-forward talk. Miss Serling and I have decided that her services would be better employed in another part of the building. Others need the help she once offered you. Do you understand? Her healing will work, perhaps, with other patients like you."

The world was shifting, and he thought the office was not safe at all. He noticed the very high ceiling, and thought that a man could hang himself in the rafters. The windows could be broken with ease, and their shards of glass could cut into flesh and make a man bleed. A skull could be smashed on the wall, floor, on the corner of the desk. _Skulls are fragile, like paper, really._

"Do you understand?"

"…Yes."

"You see why, don't you? Are you fighting her now?"

Words rippled around his ears. He felt miles away from himself, underwater. Before he couldn't describe how he felt, but now the word drunk came to mind. Intoxicated with sounds and sights, as the top corner of the office seemed to bend and contort itself, shrivel up before his eyes, bubble and hiss… "Miss Serling, you mean?"

"Your mother."

"No, I can't feel her at all." _I can't feel her at all, _she mocked.

For an instant, the doctor's face was the bare likeness of a skeleton, a grotesque, sinewy figure like a bloody, grinning mask. "Glad to hear it, Norman. Now, I'd like to prescribe you with a new medication…"

_He's trying to poison you. Don't take it. _Choruses of voices jeered and cackled, rattling in his ears, _"Poison! Poison, poison…" _He knew he wouldn't take it, just as he hid his morning pill under his tongue whenever Margaret didn't bring it to him and pretended to swallow, waiting until whoever was present had left him so he could hide it in the seam of his mattress. He knew it was wrong, but often felt another hand on top of his own, guiding it, and he felt that each fall into temptation after a day of resistance left him lower and lower than before. He was more dark than light; Margaret was his light, not that he placed her on a pedestal but she was a girl, just a girl, unlike any he had met before. Perhaps, like Marion Crane, a girl he trusted—Richman now spoke as he strained to listen—

"…And there is something else I'd like to try, something I believe may cure you completely," he lied. "Would you like that?"

_No. Tell him no. _"Yes. Anything. I'll try anything." He found his own thoughts in a throng of clashing voices. _Yes. Help me._ _Just please hurry. Quickly._

"Have you ever heard of electroshock therapy?"

"Yes." The strength of words on his lips gave Norman courage. "Yes, I have."

"You seem uncomfortable."

"No. No, I'm alright."

"You need to trust me when I say I think that this is our only option," Richman said, feeling a rush of power not unlike the power of the trickery of a certain snake in a certain garden, hate disguised as relief. True, if used properly electroshock could treat it. He looked not to treat the mind, but to torment it, to abuse the tools he had in his possession.

"I do trust you."

"Good. I'm glad. Is there anything you would like to talk to me about?"

"Well—will I… will I ever see Miss Serling anymore?"

Richman smiled and closed his eyes, shaking his head. "She may visit you if she wishes, though I told her it may be improper to do so. It almost seemed at times as if you had almost romantic feelings for her. You know what happens when that's the case—of course, I know that isn't true. You're a man who understands his place."

_Bastard. _"Yes, sir."

"But Miss Serling's talents are required elsewhere, don't you understand? Can you bear it, _can you spare her_?"

"What?"

"Can you share her? With the other patients?"

"Of course."

The doctor hated Norman, for reasons he knew too well and for reasons he didn't understand. All he needed was a trigger, something to send his patient over the edge into a violent fit. That would be so easy. Just test the edges of his tolerance, see what he can take and what he can't. "After all, you're getting better and better at controlling it. Isn't that right? I'll let you go now. She's waiting outside the office to bring you back again. You may not see her a while after today, but perhaps another day, I'm sure. Try not to think about it."

As Norman left, he glanced out the window. Dark clouds blotted out the sun. "Storm coming."

Richman sighed with content. The will to control, and the authority, were his. He was confident in his plan. "That's right."


	12. Separation Anxiety

**Short one this time. Something crazy is going to happen next chapter! I'll put it up soon. This week, please review, and in your reviews tell me how you think it's going to end.**

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><p>"Electroshock isn't so bad," Norman would say quietly one night as he faced the wall, imagining Margaret was there. He didn't do it in madness, but in seeking company he knew would not arrive. His body ached. Every day his head was getting worse. "I know you can't hear me, but I figure talking to you like this when you're not here isn't crazy if it's keeping me sane."<p>

The man across the hall laughed.

"When you used to visit, I knew you didn't just come to see me because you had to. I mean, you did, but you wanted to see me too. Didn't you?" He sighed, and the laughing grew louder. "I think you did. Help me out here, come down here and if you won't talk to me, you could get this guy to stop laughing at least."

Some days all was distorted. Walls caved in. The ceiling dripped with blood. But when he closed his eyes and spoke with her, it was if his mind was something he had control of. The longer he was apart from her, the more he understood. "I know you'll be here sometime. All there's left to do is wait."

And she was there, somewhere, corridors away, through layers of empty space and plaster walls. Somehow he was on her mind. _You really love him,_ Richman had said. _You really love him. _His mocking tone, his hidden cruel smile cut her deeply, straight to her core. She shuddered. To speak the word love in a place like this. Of course that wasn't it. It couldn't be. Not in the way Richman meant.

Richman, and what she had agreed to for Richman. What was she thinking? When she was younger, three years younger, he had courted her uneasily, and she had trusted him. As he got closer to her she pushed him away, and she refused his proposal. But why was she now to throw her life away for the benefit of a man she barely knew, a criminal? _Or a__ sinner. Just like us all._

She knew there was no solace in sin. He hadn't been seeking solace. He hadn't been seeking anything. He had another's guilt on his shoulders, and nothing pure, nothing of his own. She thought she would come to visit one night but every night she feared Richman would see her.

Margaret's face flooded with red heat, thinking of Richman. Then she thought of another face, and her expression softened.

_Through the door she could hear the humming of a machine. Someone inside gave a sharp cry. There was the familiar rumble of a calming voice, repeating something, and then the humming grew louder and higher. A man was whimpering like an animal. She knew who it was._

"I don't think you'd give up on me. It's not like you," Norman said in his room. His frame, once strong, was thinner than it even had been. His face was gaunt, and his haunting dark eyes stared blankly at the man across the hall.

Margaret's voice was creeping into his mind. _You have to fight her, Norman._

And then his mother: _Don't you dare, you little bitch! He belongs to me!_

Eyes wide, Norman stood, and in falling back he tumbled over the bench and crumpled to the floor, shaking. He began to sob. The man across the hall laughed and laughed.

It was nearing midnight now. A night guard walked down the hall.

Crawling, Norman dragged himself to his feet to peer between the bars of his door, and begged, "Please ask him to stop!"

"Right," the guard said impatiently. "Ask who?"

"The man across the hall."

"There's no one across the hall," the guard said. "There hasn't been since we moved you here."

Norman's heart sank, and through his door he saw the man grin.


	13. White Fire

It must have been the witching-time of night, the time when all are asleep, when the door to the cell creaked quietly open. All was dark, but for the moonbeams that reached through the thin window high above Norman's head. He was sitting on the bench, awake with a bursting headache. Every muscle in his body was on fire. A crack of light reached across the room as the door silently opened. He didn't look.

"Turn around," he heard a soft voice say. It was her.

He turned around, and turning back again to hide his face from her, smiled to himself. She wanted to fix him, but he was already broken. "If you're just a dream, you're a beautiful one."

His voice was different now, Margaret noticed. It lacked something of the charm she once recognized. It rang hollow and empty against white walls. "No, Norman, it's me. I had to see you-"

"But he wouldn't let you. You don't look like yourself. You seem farther away from me than you ever have. Did you know that?" It wasn't a question. He knew.

"Dr. Richman—"

"I don't care about Richman anyway." Norman's hot gaze was fixed on the wall as Margaret stood still and silent behind him. He heightened his voice feverishly. "He isn't good for you. Look at what he's done. He's sucking the life out of you."

It was true. His power over her had taken the roses from her cheeks. Gone was the vivacious smile, the burst of light. Her hair no longer shone brilliantly. Nothing about her did.

With a thin sigh, everything about him shifted. Something dark inside him came alive. "Let's not talk about him," he said, growling at the back of his throat. It reminded Margaret of her promise to him about his mother from what seemed so long ago. "I've waited to see you."

Margaret's heart swelled in her chest as a lump settled in her throat. "I can't be here. I wanted to make sure you were okay. And you are. I need to go." She took a step toward the door and found that he had leapt in her path, blocking the exit. There was wildfire in his eyes.

"Don't think I don't know what's happened. You belong to him now. You lied to me. You're his whore, aren't you? When I close my eyes I hear him whisper to you. I watch him kiss you." Norman shuddered and fell forward, catching himself on her shoulder. For a moment, he glanced around unsurely, then stumbled away from her in disgust of himself, suddenly realizing what had happened, remembering what he had done all those years ago to his mother and the man she said she loved.

He braced himself against her, his hands on her shoulders. "Norman…" She reached up to touch his face, filled with fear and pity.

"It wasn't her," he whispered. "It was me. I'm losing so much of myself. I—I'm terrified. At the same time..."

Margaret's hand slid down to the base of Norman's neck. He moved as if to pull away, but stopped, and took the hand which hung down by her side.

"I was afraid I'd hurt you," he continued, his voice low and earnest. "But as scared as I am that something terrible is going to happen, you make me stronger. I don't think she can touch you."

"You're talking very strangely," Margaret quietly replied, remembering her training. It was slipping away from her; every word she had carefully memorized in hours spent studying a manual. She wasn't supposed to trust him or anyone like him. But facts upon facts had left no room for her compassion, and taking a step closer to him would be taking a step closer to the door.

"I didn't need to talk to you to know it," Norman said. Her hand was on his chest. "I didn't need to say a word."

Slowly, Norman leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. She was shocked for a moment. Her eyes closed, and she found she was kissing him too. She knew what he had done, and at the same time that he hadn't done it. She knew how dangerous it was to be with him and what the kiss meant. She knew what he had done to the other girls, but in that moment, she glowed like a white flame. After a moment, Norman stepped back again.

Over his shoulder, she glimpsed a shadow through the small window in the door. Someone had seen them.

Margaret slapped Norman across the face. Wordlessly, she left the room. He didn't realize it was for his sake and for hers. He raised a hand to his cheek, wounded. The scarlet handprint on his cheek stung like coals in hell.


	14. Within and Without

Numb, Norman stood statue-still. His blood was ice. He lived it again and again in his head. Her lips on his as he held her against him. Her eyes filled with fear. The bite of her palm on his face, and the burning, and the sway of her body as she brushed past him. The click of the door. She was gone.

She was gone.

In the hall, the long tall shadow caught her by the wrist and pinned her against the wall. Before she cried out, his hand was on her mouth; his knee dug into her thigh. She turned her shoulders to shake him, but he held fast, his face flushed and eyes alight.

"What the hell happened in there!" She tried to pull away, but the doctor grabbed her by her chin, slammed her head against the wall. Norman was feet away and he couldn't see them. She wanted to call out his name, wanted to pull away, but Richman was strong. He laughed coldly, emptily. "You've played me like a fool. Let's see what happens when you try it again, you little bitch! You are not to see him, you are not to speak his name again or I'll slit his throat from ear to ear and dress it up like suicide. It won't be the first time!"

His hands moved to her throat. Breathless, her vision swimming, Margaret's eyes brimmed with tears as she beat her attacker's chest with her fists. Her stomach pitched, her heart pounding deafeningly in her ears. It seemed it was all she could hear as the large hands tightened around her neck. Margaret had once seen the body of a patient strangled by another patient. His larynx was crushed, Richman had said. Was this what that was? She couldn't breathe. She thought her lungs would burst. _A hummingbird's heart beats over 1,260 times a minute, _she remembered. Wasn't that funny? _I can't breathe, _she thought._ It's all too fast! _Everything faded. She thought it sounded like Richman's breathing was in a tunnel, getting farther and farther away from her. Could she die here? If she didn't act, she would lose consciousness. There was no other solution.

With a sudden flash of vitality, she stomped on his foot and dashed across the hall, where she leaned panting with her hands at her throat.

Richman gritted his teeth from the pain. "If you leave," he snarled, "I can guarantee you I'll make this place a hell for him. But you belong to me if you stay."

In a stupor, Norman saw her. She looked to him a girl who would never stand down. She had nearly caught her breath when her eyes flickered to his door and met his. Richman stepped from the shadows and into the light, revealing himself outside of Norman's blind spot. Regardless of what he had missed, it was clear to him that a choice was to be made.

"Leave," Norman said, his voice barely breaking a whisper. "It's okay. Go."

Full of sorrow, Margaret's face overflowed with compassion as she reached toward the gap in the barred window.

"You heard the young man," Richman barked. "Get out."

"I'm calling the police. They'll be here in less than an hour."

"To do what? To take away the man who they put behind bars in the finest moments of their careers? We both know that won't work. The hate in the world is something too great to measure in anything but years, and every ounce of it will rot here the way the court of law said it would."

"Hate exists only in men like you."

"Get out of here," he snapped, teeth glistening like the fangs of wild dogs. "Now!"

And when he had left Norman in darkness and despair to lay awake that night, an unfamiliar voice rasped in every corner of the cell.

_You are going to die._

There wasn't a question. "I'm already dead."

_You are going to die._

"When."

_Next year._

"Next year." Norman shook his head, trembling. He was nothing now, a man completely alone without a soul to speak to, a body with no spirit inside. A birthday candle burned down to the wick. He remembered birthday candles, and how he felt when his wishes never came true. Empty. He watched the smoke rise, silver pillars in the dark, and thought of his lost chance for redemption. No one else would listen to him now. Even now to bear the thought of losing her was killing him. His mind would tear in two, and gone would be the child who had hoped for so much. To stop fighting was never an option. He had been fighting all his life and he didn't know how to stop. But without the love of an angel, he would be powerless to stop the demons that destroyed him. "N-next year? No." He swallowed hard. "I'm not sure I'll make it that long."


	15. Fear and Richman's Plan

**_Author's Note: My computer broke and it took me a while to replace it. Been thinking of you lovelies all the while. Here you go! Please review._**

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><p><em>You are going to die, <em>the voice again warned him. It would be best to turn over now and let his subconscious grip him, let every dark urge and impulse lurking inside him take control.

But would it? After all, if he were able to keep his own voice above the others, where might it lead? The only chance he had of seeing her again was to keep himself intact. Damn the other forces pressing against him, and damn that Dr. Richman! If Miss Serling—if Margaret were here—he knew he would continue to improve. _Of course_, he thought to himself as he stretched out on his cot, _as long as she's alive there will be something worth living for._

Norman tossed and turned in the summer heat as the night wore on. His thoughts ran clockwise in his head, a vicious cycle. Only she could calm his thoughts. She was the anchor that held him to earth, the link between them as thin and precious as a spider's gossamer thread. At the same time, to love her as he wanted to would destroy her. The less he saw her, the easier it became to lose himself.

Rain poured outside, drumming on the thick tin roof. A flash of lighting illuminated the cell like a shockwave to the brain. Memories of recent weeks flooded Norman's mind, of his own voice others crying out in torment as electricity ripped through his nerve endings and shook him to the core. One session had left half of his body paralyzed for nearly a week. Beads of sweat rolled down his tortured brow. But suddenly he realized that Margaret was not the only woman of his concern.

_Mother! _His voice rang out in a cold nightmare of a memory, his fear fresh as the day he yelled it—_oh God, mother, blood—blood—_

And there she was again! Plain in his mind as if she were standing in front of him, not speaking but standing and staring, her presence as strong as it had been when she was alive. Maybe, then, the key to conquering himself was not in the woman he loved. Maybe the key lay within the woman who had destroyed his life the way he destroyed hers.

If only he could bring himself to find a way to break the pattern. If only he could remember the beginning… if he knew when the nightmare started, he could trace his steps and end it... after all, a man was the master of his own destiny, was he not? Though that was exactly the type of thing that mother didn't like to hear. _Who's some voice in my head to tell me when I'm going to die? What I need is help. But where to get it now is a more difficult question…_

And Richman thought about the girl, too, about her fine figure, her curves, the way she smiled with her lips parted. The way she might have looked standing at his bedside, white nightgown slit up the thigh, eyes downcast, perfect lashes dark against her rosy cheek…

A younger doctor knocked quickly twice and swung the office door open, poking his head in. "Dr. Richman, your presentation should be starting any second now. It's not like you to be late. In fact, we all expected you to show up early. Are you alright?"

He cleared his throat, unperturbed. "Yes, I'm fine. Be there in a moment."

When he strolled into the conference room and laid his briefcase on the table, no man suspected him of what he was, of what he knew himself to be.

"Psychopathy. Psychopathic behavior, gentlemen. Yes, sorry I'm late. I was doing a last round of research for you. Psychopathy. Characterized by antisocial behavior, by little to no empathy or remorse and by disinhibited behavior—this series of impulses may be, of course, demonstrated through an excessive appetite or a lust for anything. A wild temper, uncontrollable greed, an aggressive sexual nature, none of which cause any second thought for the psychopath in question."

_One heart pounded in agony in a chest rising and falling sharply, swimming in guilt and pain— though he never knew how roughly another had spoken to the women he cared for, how he had pinned her against a wall, wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed—_

"I decided to present this seminar to you because after careful evaluation, I have determined that Norman Bates is undoubtedly one such psychopath, as many of you may have suspected."

A ripple of shock and hushed discussion passed through the room.

"Now, listen to me, gentlemen. Listen. A patient like this could be a threat to all of us, and so a doctor in the presence of such a patient must abide by a series of careful rules. No sympathy must be given. It does require sympathy. It does not require eye contact. If one were to make eye contact with said patient, it may discern certain insight which may endanger you and your colleagues. Said patient is not to be addressed directly. Said patient is not to be reasoned with. Reasoning with said patient may endanger you and your colleagues. A rigid staff schedule will be instituted, effective immediately at the beginning of next week. Said patient will be supervised twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We only wish to ensure the safety of the staff and of the public, after all."

Frustrated, a thin grey-haired man called up from the back, "Doctor Richman, with all due respect, if you believe that we can't reasonably handle Bates in these facilities I suggest you move to transfer him to a prison."

The corner of Richman's mouth turned up slightly. "The new schedule is only temporary. If you had allowed me to continue, you would have learned that I plan to begin a new and rigorous treatment, a second phase of electroshock therapy. "

"More electroshock? You don't think that will be dangerous?" An ash-blonde, watery-eyed attendant swallowed nervously as all eyes turned on him. He shifted in his seat. "Just because of who he is, you see, since his brain isn't wired like most of the guys we have in here."

"Don't you trust my judgment, Stafford?"

A bead of sweat began to form at his temple. "O-of course I do, Dr. Richman. You know I do. I'm only raising a question on account of his violent nature. The process is still experimental."

"And when you get your doctorate, you and I can have a nice chat about it."

The room filled with stifled snickers as, embarrassed, the man they called Stafford slumped in defeat.

_You're going to die, _the voice echoed.

"You told me that," Norman said.

_You're going to die._

"How?"

_You remember Marion Crane._

Her name was a blow to his heart. "Yes, of course I do. She was very kind to me. I don't see how—"

_She had a fiancé._

"I had forgotten."

_Sam… Loomis._

Norman's mouth was suddenly dry. He felt a chill at the back of his neck. "He came to see—I mean, he saw me. He found me—found _us—_"

_In a matter of days, Sam Loomis will have a nervous breakdown and attempt to murder his wife. In a year, they will send him here. You will be sitting in the courtyard when he approaches you and stabs you eight times in the back with a knife from the kitchen. You will be taken to the hospital, and after three hours you will die. No one will mourn you._

His heart jumped in his throat. "Not Margaret?"

_Margaret will be dead too._

"Dead?!" He cried. "How?"

_Margaret will die in a fire._

"This can't be happening!" His pulse began to throb in his ears. "I can't help her now, can I? She's gone now. At least I knew she was safe before! She really could be dead for all I know. But what she did to me!" Norman let his fingers wander back to his cheek. "And she can't help me…"

Short, ragged breaths swelled into sobbing. Norman buried his face in the crook of his elbow as he lowered himself to the floor, catching his breath raggedly. When he sat up and fan his fingers through his hair, he experienced a burst of clarity. _What was it that it said? That poem in the book mother took away from me?_

"'I am the master of my own fate,'" he breathed aloud. "I'm not dead. She's not dead. Everything's going to be fine."

As they led him in bonds to the private room, she sat up from the book she was reading and thought of him.


	16. Eleven Months Wasted

Norman was sweating. He couldn't remember how he got here—where _was_ "here", anyway? How long had it been since he was here before, or the private room with the wires and cables? The high ceilings became warped as the room began to spin… "I'm going to black out," he slurred, leaning nauseously against the cool wallpaper. He sank to one knee and then the other, vision reeling. Across the room he saw a blurred figure standing behind a desk. Yes, he was in the doctor's office! He was in the middle of a conversation with the doctor. But what was his name? Of course—"Ri—Doctor Richman," he panted, wiping the dripping perspiration from his brow. "Please help me."

Unmoved by his patient's pleas, Richman coldly placed his hands on his desk and leaned forward. "Haven't you been listening? I'm doubling your new medication. And you'll be visiting your electroshock therapy sessions twice as often."

"What's happening? I don't understand—did you drug me?"

Richman shrugged dryly. "I simply changed your medication. It should lower your levels of aggression and heighten your suggestibility for better conditioning. I deemed it the best choice for you, despite a few… side effects." He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed. "Gentlemen? Yes, I think we should begin another round immediately." There was a pause. "Well, now, if it were possible."

Norman slumped against the wall, heart thudding.

"Thank you." The doctor replaced the phone on its receiver. "They're coming to get you now. Stand up."

"I want to talk to Margaret," Norman mumbled.

"What was that?"

"I want to talk to Margaret." When Norman raised his eyes, it was not a look of defeat or despair but one of betrayed exhaustion which met Richman's contempt. "I know what you're doing to me. You're torturing me. Keep at it. Who knows? Someday you may be planning to kill me. You can try that too, if nobody else gets to me first. But what you're really trying to do? It won't work."

He smiled. "And what do you suppose I'm really trying to do?"

"You're trying to break me. You're trying to take everything she gave me out of me. It won't work."

"One might suppose that any man under pressure will crack eventually," Richman suggested in a strained voice.

Norman's eyes brimmed with defiance. "One might."

"It's been nearly a year now since she abandoned you. Give in. It's useless."

"Not until I see her again."

Two men entered the room. Each took Norman by an arm and lifted him to his feet, fastening him in handcuffs and beginning to lead him away. "Wait," he said, his voice a near-whisper. "Would you please let go of me and let me walk beside you?"

Stafford looked at his grey-haired colleague and nodded. Flanked by the sympathetic guards, Norman walked down the poorly lit corridor to the dark bend in the hallway.


	17. Soon

**The second of two brief chapters this week. Please review!**

Two women sat at a modest oak dining table adorned brightly with a white lace tablecloth, a small blue tea set sitting between them.

"One more year and you'll have it, right?" A tall, thin redhead reached across the table to grasp the handle of the teapot, after which she poured a splash of hot water into her cup and replaced it.

"What?" Distracted, the young nurse glanced at her friend across the table.

"Your PhD, Margaret, in psychology."

"Sorry, Janet. Yes," she answered, running her fingers through her hair and looking out the window forlornly.

"Do you think it's going to rain?"

"I don't know. You know I'm from Cambridge. It rains a lot more there than it does here."

There was a long pause.

"Is something wrong?" Janet smiled sympathetically and leaned across the table to touch Margaret's elbow. "You know you can tell me anything."

Margaret returned a half-hearted smirk. "I had a bad dream last night. About when I stopped working at the mental hospital."

Nodding, Janet stood and walked to the couch, where she flopped down and looked at Margaret attentively. Margaret rose and sat beside her friend.

"I've never told anyone this before," she began. "But I left my job because… because the head of the hospital, Dr. Richman, made an attempt to… to assault me."

Janet put her arm around her friend, hugging her closer.

"I went to the police," Margaret continued, "but they told me I should be flattered that such a successful and well-respected man would make advances toward me. As if I were the one who was being unreasonable."

"I'm so sorry that happened to you," Janet stuttered after a moment of stunned silence.

"That's only the root of the problem," Margaret sighed. "I tried to notify different departments, different boards that the man is corrupt, but nobody listened to me. And then I had this dream." She took a deep breath and pressed her forehead to her palm, as if trying to make sense of a puzzle. "And in this dream, there was a man—he was a patient there who I used to talk to. I was the only one he used to talk to. And in this dream, he was dying. I had reason to believe when I left that he would be treated poorly after I was gone due to my relationship with him." Eyes downcast, she nervously tugged at her shirt collar. "I think I hurt him by leaving. And I tried to do what I could to get Richman removed from his position, but after it all, there was nothing I could do. Sometimes I just feel like all of it—everything about it—was beyond my control." A dull ache inside her chest made her feel sick as her heart skipped a beat. The guard killed, her lips tainted by a sacrifice for a promise. Beyond her control. The things he said of himself, his broken childhood! Beyond her control. Every word said, gentle touch, stolen kiss. And there was nothing she could do to ease his pain. "I've been thinking I might take a train out there next weekend. To see what's changed."

"I could drive you out," Janet offered. "So you don't have to go alone. But you can if you need to."

"I would love the company." Margaret's shoulders relaxed slightly as she shyly smiled at her friend. "Thank you."

_A jolt of electric current ripped through Norman's skull and raced down his spine. He shuddered and gripped the arms of the chair he was bound to as he struggled to maintain consciousness, his life itself flickering like a dying streetlamp. No memory prevailed but his pain, and the sensation of a hot red mark on his cheek where she had slapped him._


	18. Norman in Agony

**Three years ago this week, I started this story. Now we're mere chapters away from the finish. Thank you all for your continued support, and please review- the end is nigh!**

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><p>Norman cried out in pain as he buckled in his restraints, electricity gripping him to the core. "I'm awake—I'm not supposed to be awake!"<p>

_"__A man should have a hobby." She had called herself Marie Samuels. He remembered her face, so trusting, so haunted and kind._

_"__It's more than a hobby... sometimes...a hobby is supposed to pass the time, not fill it."_

_He was outside of himself now, looking in on his life. He had never realized how desperate he looked before, how worn and pale he was._

_"__Is your time so empty?"_

An old and dreaded voice pressed at the back of his brain, shrieking with familiar disdain. _Look what you've done now, boy!_

_I'm burning. I'm burning. _Darkness began to creep into Norman's vision. He felt a shadow closing over his consciousness, unable to determine whether the tightness in his lungs was being caused by fear or asphyxiation. _I can't breathe!_

"Mother," Norman choked, then cringed in shock at himself for asking her for help. As if she could do anything. As if she'd ever helped him a day in his life! He had cared for her. He had protected her and treasured her. She never repaid him an ounce of his love.

_I'll teach you to think such things of me! You ungrateful bastard! _A sensation like lightning seized his body. Burning. The only coolness Norman felt lay in the soft, pale inside of his wrist, marked with scars from when Mother hurt him. That night, when the kind young woman closed the door. What was her name? _Her name. Her name._ Richman leaned against the wall, watching, waiting. Norman convulsed in agony. _Margaret!_

_"__You know what I think? I think we're all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever climb out. We scratch and claw... but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it, we never budge an inch."_

_"__Sometimes we deliberately step into those traps."_

_"__I was born in mine. I don't mind it anymore."_

_"__You should... mind it."_

_"__Oh, I do, but I say I don't."_

Norman heard faintly two troubled voices under the noise, two men who had sympathized with him. Allies!

_"__If anyone ever spoke to me, the way I heard... The way she spoke to you, I don't think I could ever laugh again."_

_"__Sometimes when she talks that way to me I'd like to... curse her out and leave her forever! Or at least, defy her."_

The young blonde pounded on the door. "Doctor Richman, open up!"

"Richman, this isn't electroshock!" shouted the grey-haired doctor, pounding on the door. "You're electrocuting the patient!"

_Why don't you go away?_

_To a private island, like you?_

_No, not like me._

_It's too late for me. And besides... who'd look after her? She'd be alone up there, the fire would go out... damp and cold, like a grave. When you love someone, you don't do that to them, even if you hate them._

All at once, there was no color, no air- _Oh God, I'm dying!_

_Wouldn't it be better if you put her in... someplace…_

And where was she now? Where was she then? He couldn't picture the grey hair, the scowling face, but he could feel them burning, just like everything else—

_Have you ever seen one of those places? Inside? Laughing and tears and cruel eyes studying you..._

There was an instant of total blackness, a frame of light, then dark. Norman remembered each tortured corner of his childhood.

Remembered something he had forgotten…

_Laughing and tears and cruel eyes studying you._

The first time—an institution, white walls…

_Laughing and tears and cruel eyes studying you._

He couldn't have been older than twelve years old.

Cruel eyes…

_Cruel eyes studying you._

_Studying you._

His mind screamed out silently:_ God help me—God, help me!_

Through his blindness came a muffled, "Jesus Christ! Someone shut it off!"

All was white, and then a blur of colors followed by voices, as if at the end of a tunnel. It all went cold as the trembling stopped. After a moment, his body was a dull ache punctuated with stabbing pain. His temples were bleeding, that he was sure of, and his throat swollen. His hair, his chest and back were soaked with sweat, and he was bleeding at the wrists where the metal cuffs had bound him.

"Oh my God. You nearly killed him!"

Urgent hands lifted him from his restraints. His skin felt like hell to the touch. Everything was tender; Norman was dizzy with pain.

"Norman, can you hear me? Norman, hello?"

_It isn't as if she were a maniac, a raving thing..._

Norman blinked weakly, slow-moving images coming into soft focus. He opened his mouth to speak but only a quiet groan escaped.

_it's just that... sometimes she goes a little mad. _

To strain his vision was an effort too great, and Norman's eyes rolled back into his head as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

_We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you?_

[Late that night in the infirmary, the lights were out. "I'm trying to get Richman's license suspended," Norman heard Stafford whisper to a colleague as they stood over his broken body. "It'll take a couple days, and not a day too soon! He's gone completely insane. He said that once Bates can stand on his feet again he's going to give him a lobotomy."

"A lobotomy! More like an excuse to crack Bates's head open and smash his brains out with an ice pick."

"Dr. Leslie and I are doing what we can to stop it, but we can't delay it forever."

_If only I could speak to her again, _Norman thought feverishly. _Wouldn't that be wonderful?]_


	19. A Crushing Blow

As the story begins to draw to a close, please be sure to tell me in the review section what you thought of this week's chapter! Thank you for your continued support and patience.

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><p>"Come along, Mr. Bates, sir. That's it, now. Easy does it." Stafford's falsely cheery voice rang hollow in the empty hall. The young man's arm was under Norman's arm, guiding him in case in his weakness he missed a step and fell. It reminded Norman of the final scene of Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter, he the dying minister who climbed the scaffold in his final moments to confess his great sin. <em>Come hither now, and twine thy strength about me! <em>But where was the letter herself?

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," he sighed, and stopped, tilting, losing the power which enabled him to stand.

Stafford leaned against his weight with steady hands, easing Norman to the floor. "It's alright, now, we're almost there. You know, Norman, it's all right," he added with a nervous smile. "Everything is going to be… all right…"

"I—I can—" Norman cut his sentence short, closing his eyes tightly and, with great effort, he brought his hand slowly to his spinning head. "I can barely speak," Norman whispered. He paused to draw a slow breath and realized that it was difficult to breathe, then wondered whether this meant that he would stop breathing all together sooner rather than later. "I need to… to speak with—Dr. Richman." He coughed. He could feel his insides shudder. From the tips of his fingers to his heart, the nerves were going cold, freezing, but his face burned. The left side of his body was going numb. "Will you—will you bring Dr. Richman… please..."

Stafford stood abruptly, baffled but cooperative. "Sure, Norman. I'll get Dr. Richman. Just stay awake, okay?"

He meant to nod, but when he dropped his head to his chest he was unable to pick it up again. The attendant understood, and he bounded down the hallway with great urgency.

Of course, Norman understood that Richman was the cause of his pain and did not expect the doctor to ease it. Instead, with his final breath he would explain his love for Margaret and show the furious doctor that he had not been corrupted.

Had he? Had he? No—Mother was to blame, for his ailments, for his curses, for his disease and his pain. Mother was the reason, and she would die with him when the fighting ended and his red vision rolled over blue. The light would grow cold and she would be no more, and with every ounce of his heart Norman wished for a brighter light. Heaven? Yes, or a second chance. Or Margaret, the brightest light he knew. She drove along the road, the asphalt like a black ribbon against the bleak Arizona soil, even now on the route she once drove to work every morning. The clouds were plenty and grey, a rare occasion, an ashy smear against the velvet night sky.

The messenger returned, a disturbed and seething expression on his brow. Agitated for the first time in Norman's memory, Stafford attempted to maintain a calm composure, but failed, anger beneath his gentle tones. "Dr. Richman has requested that you visit him in his office. I persisted, and explained your condition, but—"

Norman looked up at him, his brown eyes cold, no effort left for feeling. A great struggle ensued as the only man who had ever acknowledged him as an equal pulled him to his feet. Norman smiled gratefully, and without words the journey down the corridor began. It was easier now to stand. The weight on his shoulders lifted, strong words in his heart, but when the cold door banged shut and Stafford was sent away, how the desire to live returned! How the longing in his chest for a chance at sunlight increased as it never had, and his poor heart slammed and slammed against his ribcage.

"You wanted to see me. You must have heard." No time was wasted, no effort expended on formalities or dishonest kindnesses. The façade was gone, and the once-handsome face, once eager to find a solution, once fascinated by his patients, once too many times heartbroken, rejected and enraged, had become the twisted scowl of a monster.

"I…" Norman attempted. Suddenly, a wave of heat swept over him, consuming his muscles with white-hot pain, as if that which he perceived as a lightning bolt which he endured was still in him. "I'm burning…" _Mental illness may manifest itself in a fever._

"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" Again, the distorted grin spread from ear to ear with the thought that he had finally ended the too-long battle with the man more frail/the spirit stronger. He leaned closer. Richman sat behind his desk, Norman too close at the desk's edge, inches away from the face of his betrayer.

"You were supposed to help me," Norman found himself saying, suddenly unaware of his own speech. "You were my doctor. You were supposed to heal me, not kill me!"

"I was never your doctor. A doctor tends the sick. You are depraved. Weak, and dying, and it was never me at all! All along, it was you. You've been killing yourself, day to day, with no effort to repent, no effort to recover! The system is flawed, Norman, but you can't rely on us to help. It's not about healing. It's about tucking you away somewhere you think you're safe so you'll never see the light of day again. I was never meant to save you," he scoffed, rising from his chair. "I was meant to watch you, to assure you felt at home here so you would never try to leave. They say the system is healing, but I don't think anyone really believes it. Maybe that bitch of yours."

Passion broke the floodgate in Norman's mind. His defense crumbled, his vision blackened. She—his greater half—leapt from the chair to seize Richman by the throat. With a great thrust of her arm, she smashed the doctor's head on the corner of his great metal desk, and again, and again. Blood splattered the carpet, the wall, the papers, onto the desk and the dead man's shoes, and stained the hands of the innocent son, who in an instant stood where she had been, frozen with terror and overwhelming grief.

The life in her veins was better, stronger, and again he was well, as if hidden within her was a regenerative quality which forced him to live with what he had done. His heart longed to surrender to those who would chain and bind him, bring him someplace worse where death was certain, but how she threatened to overtake him! Mother pressing at his mind, Norman wept for half a moment, then laughed, and wanted to scream, wanted to be sick but thought the effort involved would kill him, cried out in agony and was nearly sick, then leapt out the first-story window in flight. There was only one story, true, for the safety of the patients, but if Norman could have ended her horror he would have. Unsure of what to do, he looked into the distance, and froze. There, so close, was the familiar crest of a hill, the tall head of a structure now in shambles. This very asylum was not ten minutes from his home! From his room, from the window or the courtyard, he never knew! He made a mad dash for the summit, for now the only way to destroy her was to destroy _it, _all of it! The Bates Motel!


	20. Man is Mortal I

Margaret parked her car at the edge of the lot, heart in her throat, and ran across the lot to the door. Something was wrong, she knew it was. It had to be. The air was still, the night tense as the stiff desert winds tousled her hair and pulled her along. Halfway across the lot, she saw through the storm's sands obscuring her vision the figure of a young man with baffled shoulders, the orderly who she had come to trust.

"Stafford!" She called, shielding her eyes with the back of her hand and pulling the shawl she wore tighter around her shoulders, her feet gripping the ground to brace her against the storm. "Stafford!"

"It's me!" He yelled, hastening toward her against the current of the air. They met each other in the middle of the lot, so small inside the roaring, swirling winds. "Margaret! What are you doing here?"

"I had to come. I knew something was wrong—"

"It's Norman."

Margaret's heart dropped into her stomach. Her mind filled with grisly images, her worst fear realized. Norman dead! His thin hand lying open on the floor—that innocent blood spilled by his own hand, or by Richman— his dark eyelashes against his white and waxy cheek, sweat on his brow, the breath gone from his body— God's mercy too late to save a man who never proved the chance to be better than he was—she grew faint, her voice barely above a whisper. "How?"

"He bashed Richman's head in. I think he ran. I'm the one who found the body… there was so much blood… oh God, it was horrible!" Stafford, his face drained of its color, grabbed Margaret by her arms and buried his face in her shoulder, stifling a sob. She touched his arm gently, stepping back after a moment.

Stafford wiped his nose. "Gee, I'm sorry—"

"Where is he?"

"We called the police. They'll be here any minute—"

"Where's Norman?"

Stafford's face went pale again. He began to stammer. "I—I don't know, I—I didn't see, no one did."

"Where do you think he went?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. You know him better than anyone."

"Wait—look!" Margaret's eyes were wide as she stared past Stafford, over his head to the silhouette of a structure on a hill obscured by the sand blowing through the air. After a moment, it became clear: off in the distance, black smoke rose into the sky, its dark image remaining for only an instant before the desert winds tore it away. "He's burning it!"

"The motel?"

"I'm going!"

Margaret dashed toward her car, dirt in her eyes and her mouth. Her shawl came loose from her shoulders and blew across the parking lot.

"Margaret, don't!" Stafford yelled. "Wait for the cops to get here!"

"Tell them!" She yelled as she jumped into the driver's seat and slammed the door. She could hear nothing in the car but the winds outside and the pounding of her heart, the hastening of her breath. Tears welled up in her eyes as she wound up the long road, every tender hope she had held in secret bursting in her chest, making it impossible to breathe. The thought of Norman well again, and with her to thank for it. Norman standing on two confident feet—Norman's head on the pillow beside hers—Norman the father of her children—her cheeks burned. What a stupid thing to hope!

She could see little around her as she stopped the car and practically leapt from it at the hill's summit, running up the stairs and nearly tripping. She heard nothing but the frantic beats of her heart, felt nothing but the earth beneath her feet.

"Norman?" There was no hope he would hear her. The house was in flames, the sky howling. She swung open the door, and at that moment she froze. He was already gone, she knew. He was gone from the moment he met her. But why was she standing here, wasting precious time? She could turn her back and run to the car—or give a chance of a chance hope to prevail—

"Norman!" Margaret dashed up the stairs, shielding her eyes from the thick black smoke with her arm. Her eyes stung more with every step as she fought her way to the top floor. She coughed, throat burning. "Norman!"

There was the source of the smoke! It billowed from under a door—the house had once been so ornate, she could smell that now, burning lacquer and silk—and therein she heard a weak noise beneath the crackling and the mansion's crumbling frame, a man's near-silent laughter.

Rushing toward the door, Margaret feared for the worst. Now that she had found him, what would she do? If he was burned, if he could not walk, she wouldn't be able to carry him. And if her nightmare was confirmed? She shuddered, somehow feeling a chill—and placed her hand on the hot doorknob, too close to the blistering wood—and turned it.

Her eyes were relieved and terrified at a shocking scene, Norman kneeling on the floor as if to say his prayers by his mother's burning bed. He was calm and pale, his shirt soaked with sweat, his face relaxed, at ease. He looked eight years younger.

"Norman!"

His face seared with rage. "No more!"

"But Norman—"

"You're gone! You can't touch me anymore!" He squinted and leaned forward, then seemed that he would jump out of his own skin in terror. "Margaret! I thought— I killed her. She's gone. She can't hurt you. Now get out of here!"

"I saw the smoke," Margaret said quietly, feeling a little faint with another cough. "I came to get you—just wanted you to be safe—" She swayed a bit, dizziness clouding her mind.

"I am safe," Norman assured her, rushing to her side. She leaned on him, her hand on his chest. "Nothing bad can happen to you now. Not because of me. I won't hurt anyone ever again."

"You never hurt anyone," Margaret said, her voice strengthening. "I can't let you die like this!"

"I have to stay," Norman pleaded. "When this place is gone, and me with it, you'll be safe."

"There are other ways, Norman. Come with me!"

Near sobbing, but without enough air in his lungs to protest, Norman breathed, "I can't."

"I love you!" Margaret thought her heart would tear away from her chest and throw itself heaving onto the floor. "Things can change, if you want them to. You can make them. Please."

Norman pulled Margaret into his arms in a desperate embrace. "Alright, kid," he said, tears streaming down his face. He kissed the top of her head. "I'll go with you."

The old house groaned and shook. Side by side, they ran toward the door. The rafters were breaking. A giant beam creaked. The world slowed to a crawling pace. Norman saw Margaret standing below it, imagined her crushed under its weight, the only love in his life killed senselessly by one moment's disaster. He remembered every voice he had ever heard, every warning. Every wasted moment, every lying kiss. Margaret would die in a fire, the voice said. But here he was, and with all of his will, nothing would harm her as long as he was living. And he was meant to be killed by Sam Loomis? No. The choice was his to follow a nobler path.

_Things can change, if you want them to. You can make them._

And so he changed it.

Norman lunged forward, pushing Margaret to the side as the rafters crashed down around them. The gaping hole in the ceiling let the howling wind in, deafening, muffling Margaret's terrified scream.

Norman lay still, burned and bleeding. A beam had fallen across his chest.


	21. Man is Mortal II

She knelt by his side, he face chalk-white despite the thin layer of ash now coating her face.

"Norman! Norman, can you hear me?" In vain, Margaret tried to pry the giant plank off of her wounded friend. She began to weep helplessly, resting her head on top of his. A moment passed, the air still smoldering. He stirred, and lifted his eyes to find her cheek pressed against his.

"Margaret—get—out," he murmured, his breath sharp and his words slurred.

Her eyes brightened and she leapt to her feet. "Norman, stay calm. I want you to try to move. It's going to hurt, but I need you to try it."

Norman inhaled deeply and flinched, his brow furrowing at the pain.

"Can you still move your legs?"

"I—think I—"

Margaret tore a piece of fabric from her sleeve and pressed it over Norman's nose and mouth. He gingerly lifted his arm in understanding and replaced her hand with his. Light-headed and strength draining quickly, Margaret used the last surge of adrenaline in her body to hoist one fallen plank onto another parallel to Norman's in order to construct a lever. She threw the whole of her weight onto the effort arm, shifting the beam just enough for a moment to allow Norman to roll himself over. It crashed down beside him. He groaned, free from the trap.

Norman flung one arm around Margaret's shoulder and tried to place weight on his left leg. He yelled in agony. They staggered toward the stairs and managed halfway down the stairs before Margaret tripped, nearly blind with pain, and Norman tumbled to the landing. She ran to his side, and together they limped through the door and stumbled onto the lawn where fresh air could wash over them, both burned and bleeding.

Outside, the wind was dying, and a rare coolness settled in the grass. A grey overcast clouded the sky and blotted out the sun, bringing relief to hot skin.

Just far away enough for safety from the toppling structure, Norman collapsed into Margaret's arms. There he laid his head in her lap as she caught the much-wanted air in her lungs, listening to him struggle for breath. She touched his cheek where her hand had once stung him and he smiled weakly. She had finally cooled the burning. His eyelids grew heavy with the desire for sleep.

"Stay awake with me. Please," Margaret urged.

"I never could have loved you," Norman whispered in breathless labored breathing, pain and transcendent relief in every forced word. "Never could have—given you what you deserve—with only half of me to give—"

Margaret could feel him draining away from himself, fading deeper and deeper into her arms. Her tears left clean streaks on her soot-smudged cheeks. "Everything is going to be different now. You're going to be alright. You have to be."

Rain fell, slowly at first, with tiny drops of water falling around them and on them.

"She's—she's gone— it's over now."

"That's right, Norman!" Her voice shook with fear, her shining face imploring him to stay with her. "It's over. We've won."

The speed of the growing raindrops quickened as the shower began to crescendo into a downpour.

Norman's breath quickened as he attempted to speak. "Fighting her—I forgot—how whole I felt—before I—"

"I know."

He coughed. Margaret noticed blood at the corner of his mouth.

"Look!" She said, desperately drawing his attention to something that would occupy his mind. "The fire is dying."

The rains quenched the fire as black smoke raised a thick column in the air.

Norman turned his head to gaze at the ruins. "I killed my mother," Norman whispered.

"Hold me— tighter," he gasped. "I can't… feel your arms anymore…"

Two police cars, two ambulances and a fire engine screamed into the lot.

Margaret held Norman to her chest, her face in his shoulder. "You're going to live," she insisted, the tears flowing now as rain fell in sheets around them.

Men in uniform rushed out of their vehicles and ran up the steps. Norman was lifted from her grasp and placed on a stretcher as a medic took Margaret's arm and tried to lead her away.

"No!" she cried, twisting from his grasp. "I'm going with him!"

No one protested.

"I'm not going to leave you, Norman," she vowed as she chased after him, as he was being carried away. His breathing slowed when he looked at her, knowing she was safe, knowing he could rest. "I know how long you've fought, but if you're willing to fight for just a little longer…!"

Margaret stayed by Norman's side as the darkness came, and she was there in the fluorescent room when, like at the end of nightmare, he awoke.


	22. Epilogue

1978.

There's a small brick house at the end of a long, winding road in the state of Maine. It sits deep in the woods, shaded by leafy trees and far from the bustle of the city. The residents include a man, his young wife and their infant daughter, the couple weathered by the world but content that the end of their sorrows came to be this way.

They cannot say that they only seldom think of the destruction that lay in their pasts, but when they do they remember, and they learn. They have tasted that rewarding fruit of perseverance which is love more precious than life.

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><p><strong>This story is dedicated to its faithful readers. Thank you all for listening so graciously!<strong>

**Love,**  
><strong>Lee<strong>


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